A Day In The Life
by islesofskye
Summary: Nobody knew about Molly Hooper's secret life, except for one man. And he was guilty too, playing accomplice to indulgence by enabling her. But who could blame him, when their lives have been so inexplicably tied to one another. Non-chronological explorations into the hidden life of Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock/Molly.
1. New Beginnings

**1. New Beginnings**

* * *

_I could reinvent myself,_ she realized one day on the commute home from work.

Even though no one – except for _him_ – knew about the dual life she had been living. For what it's worth, she was done with that lifestyle. She was over it. She was clean now. The destruction, the consumption, the all-consuming self-hate threatening to burn the tenuous bridges holding the tattered pieces of her life together, was finally extinguished.

The bus's rhythmic swaying and stopping lulled her into an unusually contemplative mood. Earlier in the week, her boss had mentioned a job opening for her in London. Molly hadn't intended on taking it, but she told him she'd think it over for propriety's sake. However, she had the sinking feeling that if she stayed here any longer, it would be like stepping over a precipice without a harness.

This was her chance. She could get away.

She tried to picture herself five years in the future. She wanted to ask New Molly Hooper what to do next. But the paralyzing fear that New Molly was just an older version of Past, Messed-Up Molly dissolved the image immediately.

It was suddenly difficult to breathe on the crowded bus. Her grip on the rail above her head tightened, the bones in her hand painfully digging into the unyielding metal. But it was a welcome pain, anchoring her to the real world as the wave of Fear came back tenfold, carrying with it The Need. She had to sit down, but she couldn't. Close her eyes. Deep breaths. Concentrate on the here and now. Take life one day at a time. Think calmly and rationally.

Life in this idyllic town was toxic. She needed to get away – she knew that. But she was good at her day job – she also knew that too – and moving to London would be good for her career.

Curiously, she had realized from the beginning that she was able to compartmentalize her life into two categories: The Life and Her Life. She could separate her downward spiral to ruin in The Life and juxtapose it with the academic success and accolades in Her Life. By day, Molly was a put-together, respectable doctor at the small hospital in the center of town. By night, she found solace at the bottom of the whiskey bottle or from the exquisitely sharp pinch of a needle, but never both at the same time. She wasn't stupid.

She is – _was –_ a functioning addict.

It was at her lowest point, when she awoke to find herself scratched, bruised, and covered in sick, that she realized with a mirthless laugh how her life was a morbid example of Newton's third law.

_For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction._

For every good in her life, she managed to find a way to fuck something up.

_No more._

The bus rolled to a stop on the corner of her street. Shuffling out the door with a few quiet _pardon me_'s and _sorry'_s, Molly pulled her scarf up towards her chin to stave off the winter cold. She brushed a few snowflakes from her nose as her feet quietly crunched up the icy steps to her building. Once in her flat, she dumped her things on the console table by the door with a sigh. It took a moment for her to compose herself, to steel her nerves. She picked up the phone and called her boss. She had to do this before she changed her mind.

"Hi, Patrick? It's Molly," she said calmly. "I think I will take that job after all."

"Fantastic!" The crackly line did nothing to subdue her boss's bottomless enthusiasm. "I'll let Mike Stamford know right away and get your transfer papers sorted in the morning. I'm really glad you're making this decision, Molly. London will be wonderful for you!"

"Yeah," she replied, a nervous smile creeping to her lips. "I hope so."

That night, as she was brushing her teeth before bed, she felt the strange urge to call _him_.

It had been three years since they had last spoken. She blamed him for everything, but it wasn't really fair of her to do so. He had never forced her or persuaded her to do anything. In fact, he had quietly discouraged it at the beginning. But it was a lonely time for the both of them, and misery loves company, so he indulged her whims. Having a companion helped fill the void.

It was the pitiful meow of her cat, Toby, which pulled her out of her reverie. The phone was in her hands and a tinny voice was coming from the receiver. Three years and she still remembered his phone number. Putting it up to her ear, she braced herself.

" – wasting my time," his deep baritone barked. All the memories came back, triggered by his all too familiar voice, in a blinding rush.

"Wait – " Molly hesitated. _Fuck._

"Who is this?" His tone was nothing short of annoyed.

"It's Molly," she said_. Molly, hang up now._ "Hi Sherlock."

His silence made her physically cringe.

"Molly," the steely edge to his voice softened. "I hope you are well."

A statement, not a question. Not an invitation to a conversation, but a means to end it. But she had called him and she had to say something.

"I am," she switched the phone to her other ear. "I am now. I wanted to let you know that I'll be moving to London soon."

"Ah."

"You won't - you won't be able to reach me at this number anymore," she began with a stammer.

"I see."

"Yeah. Um, how are you? I hope things are good with you."

"I'm fine," he replied slowly. "I wish you the best of luck, Molly."

"Thank you," she had to end this conversation now. "Well, good night Sherlock."

"Good bye, Molly."

She waited for the click and the dial tone before putting the phone back into its cradle, feeling a strange sense of emptiness. A cleansing sort of catharsis.

It was fine. She was going to be fine.

_Yeah, I'll be fine. Freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional,_ she thought grimly.

No. She couldn't think like that. Not anymore. That was how Past Molly would think. She had to start thinking like New Molly.

And New Molly would say that this was a new chapter in her life. A better one. Or so she hoped.

* * *

**AN:** I'm planning on writing a short Sherlolly ficlet every day for the next year. They'll be connected, but not necessarily chronological. Mainly, this is for myself, for me to improve and get into the habit of writing. But also, this is for the fandom. There's no such thing as too many Sherlolly fics, is there?

Let me know what you think.

- Skye


	2. Childhood Memories

**AN: **If you haven't read The Hobbit and are planning to watch the movie series instead (why), I should warn you that there's a spoiler in this chapter for the end of the book/movies. Like, the very end of The Hobbit. There's a non spoilery edition of this chapter, which you can find here:  
wheretheworldscollide dot tumblr dot com slash private slash 70544657153 slash tumblr_my326q7arE1struf7

**2. Childhood Memories**

* * *

Sherlock was minding his own business, gently swaying from side to side on the park swing, when a shadow fell over the page of the book he was reading. He squinted up to the figure that had approached him, readjusting his eyes to the direct sunlight. A pair of wide brown eyes was level with his, its owner a light brown haired girl in a navy blue pinafore.

"You're on my swing," she said.

She seemed nervous, one of her small fists curling around the end of her braided pigtails. Her mary-jane clad feet were turned inwards, something that Sherlock noted the maids at home tended do when they asked Mummy a question during breakfast.

He glanced around the park. For a warm and sunny day, there weren't very many people. A few young parents were carefully keeping watch on the toddlers sitting in the sandpit, and a couple other nannies were fussing over the other toddlers running and screaming around the jungle gym. His own nanny was sitting on a bench beneath a tree to the left of the sandy toddlers. Apart from the girl standing in front of him, there were no other kids that seemed to be his age. And there were two other swings on the swing set that this girl could choose from. Honestly, didn't her parents teach her any sort of manners?

The girl stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to get up. Well he was not going to, thank you very much.

"I got here first and you can take any of those swings. How old are you anyways?" He asked haughtily.

The little girl's chin lifted in defiance, her hands on her hips.

"Seven."

"Hah! I'm ten. So I say you pick another swing," Sherlock said with a smug grin. "And what's your name? You should be in school. It's noon."

The girl jabbed his shoulder, almost knocking him backwards off the swing if it weren't for the fact that he had a hand gripping the chain.

"Just because you're bigger than me doesn't mean you can boss me around. And I had a doctor's appointment in the morning so I didn't have to go. That's my swing. I always sit in it," she replied, her brows furrowed and eyes stormy. "And my name is Molly. Why aren't _you_ in school?"

"I have tutors," he countered.

He looked down and began to read again. Mycroft said that he was getting to the good part of the book – _"Bilbo's about to meet the dragon under the mountain! Who reminds me a lot of Father, but don't tell him I said that."_ – and Sherlock was lucky that Mr. O'Brien had let him have the rest of the day off.

"Now go bother someone else," he waved her off without looking up. "I'm busy and you're annoying me."

With a huff and a stomp of one of her feet, little Molly stormed away and sunk onto a swing two away from him.

Sherlock, 1. Annoying girl, 0.

The swing set creaked and groaned as she pushed herself up and off, tucking her feet in as she descended to propel herself forward. Sherlock resumed his leisurely sideways swinging as he turned the page. Less effort, same sort of thing.

All too soon, Molly was back.

"Please can I have this swing?" She asked again. "The seat on the other one is a little higher and the one on the end doesn't go as high as this one. You're just sitting there, anyways."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

"_Please?_"

"Fine."

"Really?"

"No."

Then the girl did the unthinkable. She had snatched his book from his hands and hopped away like a leprechaun, out of his reach. Holding the book behind her back, she scrunched up her nose and stuck out her tongue out at him.

"Hey!" Sherlock protested. "Give it here!"

"I'll trade you," she taunted. "Your book for your swing."

"But they're both mine – you can't trade me what's mine."

"I don't see you with a book. So I guess this is mine now." She slowly began to walk backwards away from the swing set, flipping through the pages of _his_ book.

There was no other way. Mycroft would be very upset with him if he lost his limited edition copy of The Hobbit, so it was with a heavy heart that Sherlock stood up, one hand holding the chain of the swing out towards her as an offering. _Not fair._

"Fine, you can have the stupid swing. Just give me my book back."

Her mouth opened, scandalized at his use of _the s- word_, but she quickly closed it shut with a satisfied smirk. She ran and grabbed the swing before the boy could change his mind or trick her out of their trade.

"Thank you," she said sweetly.

Sherlock grumbled under his breath and took the adjacent swing.

Sherlock, 1. Really annoying girl, 1.

"By the way, that's a really good book you're reading," Molly said with a smile and a tilt of her pig-tailed head. "My daddy used to read it to me before bedtime and we finished last week."

"How cute," Sherlock answered with a drawl. "It's very kind of your father to read to you when you don't know how to read, yourself."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the girl bristle with contempt. He knew she could read, of course. He saw how her eyes flicked from side to side as she scanned through the novel. But still, she was being irritating and he didn't feel like being nice anymore.

"Yeah, it really is isn't it?" She said icily, the toe of her shoe making circles in the sand. "I was really sad when Thorin died though."

The book dropped with a thud.

"Oh," she twirled her swing to face him with a look of mock surprise. "You didn't get to that part yet, did you?"

Sherlock picked up his book angrily and jumped out of his swing, marching towards his nanny. He would not stay here and be pushed around by a seven year-old, book spoiling, nuisance of a girl.

"Bye!" she called out to him with a laugh. "Thanks for the swing!"

Sherlock, 1. Extremely aggravating girl, 2.

_Not fair._

* * *

Years and years later, when Molly suggested they watch The Hobbit on one of their many lazy nights in 221B, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

"It's a fantastic book! They made it into a movie series and the first one came out a couple years ago."

"I _know_ it's a great book, or I would have if _someone_ hadn't ruined it for me," Sherlock grumbled.

"Well, that wasn't very nice of them. Only poopy-heads ruin books for people."

"Yes, I believe at the time, she most definitely was a... poopy-head."

Molly popped the disc into the DVD player and settled into the sofa next to him. With a contented sigh, she tucked her head against his chest, pulling his arm around her like a blanket.

She never did know that _she_ was the poopy-head.

* * *

**AN:** A much more lighthearted chapter than the last. Read and review?

-Skye


	3. (No) Peace of Mind

**AN:** Sorry for the lack of updates. A few things happened some of them happy, some of them not as happy, that prevented me from writing this story. Just to clarify some confusion, the chapters are alternating in chronicity. Odd chapters are their current situation, even chapters are their past. I want to juxtapose their current situation to their childhood/past experiences. If you've ever seen Blue Valentine, I think you'll understand what I mean. If not, I hope it will become clearer with later chapters. Anyways, enjoy!

**3. (No) Peace of Mind**

* * *

It calmed Molly to know that the stars could not be moved. That despite the inconsistency in all the other aspects of her life, she could gaze at the swarthy blue-black of the sky each and every night and pick out a specific star or a constellation. It would be there, on time, according to its set schedule. During the summers, she could rely on Vega's bright light to guide her eyes to the other constellations. Ursa major, Ursa minor. Lyra. Scorpius. Cassiopeia. She would spend hours outside with her eyes turned heavenwards, the ice-cold water she sipped as calming as the balmy night wind.

But on this winter night, a thin layer of stratus clouds covered the sky, just barely letting the crescent moon shine through. It was the morning after her disastrous phone call to Sherlock, just before dawn. Molly quietly climbed the staircase up to the roof of her Brighton flat, careful not to wake the other tenants.

She had barely been able to sleep. Her unbidden anxiety and the warm confines of her duvet only made her feel sweaty and sticky. She needed air. Smoothing a quilt on the frosty rooftop, Molly lay down.

The town was quiet at this time of day. Only the occasional hum of the dustmen truck, collecting the rubbish from the bins below, broke the stillness of the morning. The crisp air was bitingly cold, her breath puffing out in little clouds in front of her. But it was rejuvenating. It made it easier to not think about Sherlock. Or London. It was easy to focus on the number of breaths she was taking when she could see it. She could focus on drawing her coat tighter around her, on keeping warm instead of possibly meeting Sherlock again. Not that she would plan to, of course. But it could happen.

London was by no means a small city. She didn't expect to randomly bump into him in a coffee shop or pub – _Sherlock? In a social situation? How laughable_. – but she was taking a position at St. Barts. And from the last thing she had heard of him, he was doing some sort of private investigating business. And maybe private investigators worked with hospitals? Molly shook her head. No. Barts is a large hospital. The universe couldn't be so cruel.

* * *

"That's a lovely piece dear, but would you mind not playing at four in the morning?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped shut in annoyance. He made himself count to five in his head before wheeling around, violin and bow lowered. His elderly landlady stood at the top of the steps. She clutched her terrycloth robe tightly around her and wore an expression of annoyance and worry on her face, slippers on her feet.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said tersely. "You know it helps me think."

"Yes, but Sherlock, could you wait till it was daylight? I've an appointment to get to in the morning," Mrs. Hudson replied. She stepped into his flat, noticing a half empty plate of toast and beans on the coffee table and moved it to the sink.

Sherlock tossed his violin onto his couch with a huff. He knew from past experience that she wouldn't let up until she got what she wanted. She was pesky and persistent and was capable of absolutely wearing him down. Dealing with his sleep-deprived landlady was not at the top of his list of priorities at the moment. He had more urgent things to contend with.

"Fine, Mrs. Hudson," he sighed. "Good night."

She smiled and patted his arm affectionately before bouncing back down the stairs, closing the door gently behind her.

The click of the doorknob triggered something inside of Sherlock's head. He slumped into the black leather chair in front of the large windows, his head in his hands and elbows on his knees. He felt infinitely weary.

Molly Hooper was coming back to London.

It only took one phone call and a quick search of hospital registers to determine where she would be working. The prestigious Barts hospital. Well that was fucking perfect. He already had an arrangement with Mike Stamford, and he highly doubted any other hospital would accept his unorthodox – but effective – methods. Or grant him access to their laboratories. He wasn't going to me moved out _his_ hospital just because she was coming back.

There were two possible outcomes to this situation:

1. He would have to face her, possibly on multiple occasions. This would result in extremely tense and awkward encounters. Perhaps she would be civil, or she would ignore him completely. He didn't know which was worse.

2. He could avoid her at all costs. And pretend to not know her. But that was unnecessarily childish.

He was the one who fucked up so he couldn't be the prat in this situation. He shouldn't even be thinking about her as much as he was. She was the past. It does not do to dwell. An angry, wordless cry of frustration escaped him and he jumped to his feet. She made him so frustrated and angry and helple- no, not helpless. Never helpless. He was Sherlock Fucking Holmes and he is not a fucking helpless child. But he was restless, his body unable to stay still. He needed to unwind. Now. He needed a fix right now.

_No no no. You quit you stopped you are clean you are done. Alternatives. Think._

Trembling fingers lifted the top of the packet and fished for a cigarette to place between his lips. He took a deep breath and steadied his hands to light it. A deep drag, his eyes closed, and he let the nicotine flood his system.

Not as good, but this will have to do.

He needed to get out. He needed to walk, to run, to move.

Quick as he could, he shoved his arms into his coat and feet into a pair of shoes. He took the steps two at a time, nearly running down the staircase. The flat was becoming stifling. He needed to get out. Get away.

But Molly Hooper was coming back to London.

She was making him come undone again.

Why did he ever think he could get away from her?

* * *

**AN:** Shorter chapter, I apologize. But I just want to say a genuine, heartfelt thank you to those of you that have followed, favorited and messaged me about this story. And to those of you that reviewed, **Rocking the Redhead, Xarkastique, Renaissancebooklover108, Empress of Verace, Musical FANtasy, nowsusieq, louvreangel, Bella Cuore** and my mysterious **Guests**, if I could hug you or paint you a picture of thanks, I would.

Also, I'm really, really, really sorry **Tenshi**, about spoiling The Hobbit for you. :(


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